


Second Chances

by Cor_Rodia



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Bajorans, Cardassians, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s07e15 Lower Decks, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Forced Cohabitation, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Not Canon Compliant, Occupation of Bajor, Religion, Sito survives, in relation to Cardassians having Bajoran lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2020-03-30 01:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19031515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cor_Rodia/pseuds/Cor_Rodia
Summary: Ensign Sito Jaxa survived the destruction of her escape pod. Now she and her unlikely ally, Cardassian military officer Joret Dal, are stuck with each other until they can get her back to the Federation. With Sito's freedom and Dal's network of Cardassian defectors at risk, the two come up with a plan, however distasteful, to keep Sito out of the labor camps. They will have to move carefully and trust each other in order to keep their ruse alive.





	1. Make it look real

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking about this since I rewatched Lower Decks last year, and I finally just decided to do it. I know that the showrunners on DS9 talked about bringing Sito back, and I think she shows up in a couple Star Trek novels having survived and lived in a Cardassian prison camp, but I'm not worrying about any of that.
> 
> I don't actually know for sure where this is going yet, emotionally or plot-wise, so we'll just have to see what happens?

One minute, Sito was closing herself into the tiny escape pod, bracing herself against the too-close walls as it jettisoned away from the shuttle. The next, she was back in the craft, the hum of a transporter ringing in her ears as she materialized. She rounded on the Cardassian, heart pounding. “What hap—“

She cut herself short at the sight of Joret Dal, his weapon raised. Before she could react, the blast sent her crumpling to the floor. A sharp electrical burn surged through her. Her heart stalled, only a moment, before it jumped to life, banging around her chest like a bird in a trap.

As she lay there, gasping, she could only just register the beep of the comm system. Her former ally turned back to the controls, answering the hail. “It seems you lost your prisoner,” one of the border patrol guards said snidely.

“I still have her,” he replied. “I had a transporter lock on her, figured she might try something at the border. But thank you for destroying my pod before I had a chance to retrieve it.”

The guard might have sounded cowed, if Cardassians had known how to do so. “I see. Hopefully you will have no need of it before you reach your destination.”

“Indeed. Thank you for your assistance.” Dal ended the transmission and put the shuttle into auto pilot. He watched the screen carefully for a minute before his posture eased, and he looked back to her. “They’re moving on. Let me get a med kit.”

Sito tried to sit up, sending waves of blood pounding through her head. Her pulse throbbed painfully in her ears, her temple, her jaw, her lips. The front of her already-battered clothing was charred, and her skin felt raw beneath it. “Why?” she gasped.

“I had to make it look real.” The Cardassian knelt by her side, the emergency med kit in hand.

She shifted away from him, hissing at the pain of it. “Why did you pull me out?”

He looked puzzled, now, giving up his business-like bedside manner. He scanned her head, as if she might have concussed herself falling down. “If I hadn’t, you would be nothing but a scattering of space debris right now.”

“But how am I going to get back?”

The question hung in the air between them, answered in the silence. The low, mechanical hum of the shuttle suddenly seemed deafening. She winced.

The Cardassian moved closer once more, brandishing a hypospray, but she knocked his hand away.

“ _Ensign_ ,” he said, equal parts frustrated and bemused.

She glanced up at him, somehow comforted by the title. The plan had gone sideways, as plans tended to do, but she was still a Starfleet officer. And, at the end of the day, she had accomplished her mission: Joret Dal was safely across the border.

Now she just had to find a way back out.

“Give it to me,” she said, and he put the hypospray in her open hand. She administered it to herself. The pain eased, leaving her a clearer head. “Can we get a message to the Enterprise?”

“Not safely.” He sat back on his heels, his tail acting as balance. “Unfortunately, they will most likely detect the remains of the escape pod and assume the worst. We will have to bide our time before we can contact Starfleet, but at the first opportunity, I will inform them of your survival.”

“Would it be possible to arrange some kind of prisoner exchange?”

He shook his head. “We’ve been very careful about our captured Bajorans. Let the wrong person go, suddenly some critical piece of information makes its way to the terrorists—you see. Also, your false identity may not hold up to intense scrutiny, which is exactly what it would face should the Federation come asking for you by name. And if anyone finds out you’re with Starfleet—“

“It puts you and your whole network at risk,” she finished for him. “Is there some remote planet I could hide out on, until someone has a chance to come get me? I can survive on my own.”

“There is no planet in this area that is hospitable to life without a military presence, and you would not be safe even in the most undeveloped parts of those. Sweeping for Bajoran life sings is a common security measure.”

“Well, if the Resistance is going to get me found, why don’t you leave me with them?”

He laughed dryly. “If you imagine I have contacts within the Resistance, you are mistaken. Those terrorists would never listen to me, even if I tried to approach them. And they are not that easy to find. Otherwise they would have fallen long ago.”

Sito tossed the hypospray back in the med kit and slammed it shut. “Do you have any suggestions, then?”

He pursed his scaly lips, staring a hole in the floor. “I did have a thought. I do not think you will like it.” Sito waved for him to go on. “I could try to have you remanded into my custody.”

She blinked at him. “Is that… done?”

“On occasion, yes. Of course it is preferable to pull such… arrangements from the civilian population, but it’s not unheard of. The head of Terok Nor has had a string of Bajorans, several of them being former terrorists or dissidents.”

“So I…” She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “I would…”

“Pretend to be my mistress,” he supplied. “Yes. For the sake of appearances only, of course. That way I can keep you close, and if an opportunity comes along, we’ll be ready.” He paused, watching her process this. “The other options are to turn you over, or abandon you on a planet as you suggested, in which case you would most likely end up at a camp anyway. And once you are in a camp, it would be near impossible to get you out.”

Sito stared at him, unmoving, for a long moment. He met her gaze evenly. She took a small, measured breath. “How long?”

“There’s no way to—“

“Give me an estimate. Lie if you have to. I’m trying to talk myself into this, and I need a timeframe.”

He was quiet, squinting at her as if appraising a piece of recalcitrant equipment. Finally, he said, “Two years.”

“That is a complete and utter guess.”

“Yes,” he said. “Once we get back to Cardassia Prime, I can coordinate with my contacts, perhaps come up with something more definite. But I’m afraid this is going to be a waiting game.”

Sito let out a shuddering breath and got to her feet. Dal stayed crouched beside her. “I will do all I can,” he said. “I realize the debt I owe you.”

“If it’s all right with you, I’m going to turn off the translator for a while.”

He blinked up at her, bewildered. “I do not have to speak to you, if you don’t wish it.”

She was astonished to find that this made her want to laugh, despite everything. She didn’t, preferring to swallow the laughter down rather than risk it turning into something else. But to know she could laugh, still, was heartening. “It’s not that. I… I would like to pray. And there is not much in the way of privacy on this craft.”

“Oh,” he said, finally standing. “Of course. By all means.”

Sito went to the front of the shuttle, settling into the right-hand seat. For a moment, she just sat, watching the stars stream by. Every nano-second brought them farther into enemy territory. As far as anyone outside this shuttle knew, she was lost—far from the Enterprise, the Academy, from everything she had known. “Computer. Discontinue universal translator.”

“Universal translator discontinued.”

Sito looked back over her shoulder. The Cardassian was making himself busy in the rear of the shuttle, poking through the few belongings he has brought with him. A small pang hit her, thinking of the things she had left behind. She wondered if they would be thrown away. Maybe someone—Wesley, or maybe Worf—would have them put in storage. But it did no good to think of what she had lost, whether effects or friends.

“I have nothing now,” she said.

The Cardassian turned to look at her and said something. The spitting, hissing language made no more sense to her than the Bajoran must have made to him.

She turned back around, leaning toward the view-screen until she could see nothing but stars, streaks of light gone in an instant. She had fallen out of the habit of praying at the Academy. Of course, Federation members made a show of respecting each other’s cultures and customs—and those of non-Federation refugees like herself—but many held a strong skepticism toward religion. Not that they necessarily thought higher powers impossible, but agnosticism had been a sign of cultural evolution in many of their societies, particularly where religious disagreements had been used as an excuse for war and persecution. Worf was one of the only openly observant people she knew in Starfleet, which might have had something to do with how well they got along.

Sito was not ashamed of the Bajoran faith. It was interesting, at times beautiful, but most importantly, hers. Still, she had not been extremely devout even before joining Starfleet, and since, it had become gradually smaller and quieter, her faith, until at times she almost forgot it.

But now, an all-but-captive Bajoran hurtling headlong into Cardassian space—if ever she needed the guidance of the Prophets, it was now.

She started with old traditional prayers, memorized in her childhood, though a bit mentally dusty from years of disuse. Prayers for wisdom and resilience, deliverance and foresight. For peace, and the strength to obtain it.

As she went on, the forms devolved into a ramble of half-remembered prayers, hymns, bits of text, until she was just talking. Words started to come out of her that she hadn’t meant to say. How sorry she was about what happened at the Academy, how grateful she was to have been given a second chance, how frightened she was now. She knew better than to try to bargain with the Prophets, but she found herself offering anything to be home again.

She hadn’t realized she was crying until something soft touched her hand. He had brought her a towel, but when she looked up at Dal, he was turned away.

She dried her face while he took his seat beside her. He hissed something toward the console, and the computer said, “Universal translator engaged.”

“We’re almost to the camp,” he said. “I will convince them to let me take you, if that’s what you want, but we should come up with a plan.”

“Okay,” she said, scrubbing the last tears from her eyelashes with the heel of her hand. “Tell me what you need.”


	2. What I give you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is (briefly) only one bed.

He probably should have told her that he understood Bajoran.

He would have, if he’d known she was going to say all she’d said. He’d heard Bajorans pray before, both in ritual and in desperation, so he had expected the old familiar forms. Under that assumption, he had figured it would do her better to maintain that illusion of privacy. Granted, once she moved on from the scripted prayers she had been speaking fast, and he hadn’t caught everything. But he had heard much more than he was supposed to.

“I have nothing now,” she had said to him, and he had seen at once how true it was. Everything and everyone that was once hers was out of reach, and this new identity they were creating for her was a wretched figure, especially in comparison to all she had achieved.

“You will have what I give you,” he had said, only because she couldn’t understand him. It had been good to speak it aloud, to cement for himself the truth of it. This woman would depend on him for everything, down to her safety and survival. It was a responsibility he did not relish, but his duty was clear. She had risked her life to help him, or his cause at least, when she had every reason in the cosmos not to. He meant to give her his all.

“What are your primary skills,” he asked, “apart from those focused on combat? Any background in science or medicine?”

“Not much,” she said. “Besides security, my main specialty is piloting.”

“Right. Picard did mention that.” He sat back in his chair, watching the screen as they closed in on their destination. “It’s less than ideal; research is considered a more appropriate field for women on Cardassia, and that might have garnered some comity. But a pilot does fit more neatly into the cover I was thinking of, so perhaps it’s for the best.” He looked to her, frowning at her faux bruises. It would be difficult to paint her as harmless, when she’d been made to look like she’d given him a fight. But things happened, and no Cardassian had ever been looked at askance for being too rough with a Bajoran.

“I will tell them that you are the last survivor of a terrorist cell, into which you were unwillingly conscripted. Perhaps by a lover, or a family member—your father would be most sympathetic. You have no combat skills to speak of and pose no threat as long as you cannot access a ship.”

She was smiling, grimly, and he thought he could see the wounds of her pride already. “If they interrogate me, what are some attacks that we can give my poor ill-fated cell credit for?”

“Doubtless they will want to question you,” he said, and gave her a quick list of recent Resistance activities. “If it goes poorly, we can claim emotional distress. They won’t be expecting much, anyway; Bajoran terrorists rarely give up anything useful in interrogation.”

The console beeped, and they both looked at it. They were nearing the planet’s atmosphere, and a patrol ship had peeled away from its orbit. “They’re coming,” he said.

She nodded, and he saw a wave of calm come over her, the same as before they crossed into Cardassian space. She was ready.

The girl turned out to be a better actor than he expected. He hadn’t been too worried—she’d done admirably at the border—but for this there had been little time to prepare, and it was a much more complex deception. But by the time they brought her into the interrogation room, her distress was most convincing: she was shivering, hunched, her eyes darting around the bare steel room. Like a caged animal. He watched, impressed but not showing it, with the warden on the other side of a window. She answered the questions with just the right amount of hesitance; one could almost see loyalty and self-preservation warring on her face. She burst out with bits and pieces of information, as if throwing the words between herself and the threat of pain, but nothing extraneous—nothing that could damage the credibility of her story. He wondered how a young woman like her, with all the moral entanglements of Starfleet, has become such an accomplished liar.

The questions turned to her supposedly-vanquished cell. She gave the names, and the tears came readily with them, as if she had stored them specifically for that moment. So calculating. And it was working; he could see that the interrogator and the warden thought her rather pathetic and worthless. It was time for his part. “I doubt she’ll give you anything useful.”

“It does seem unlikely,” the warden said, leaning against the window carelessly. “We’ll finish this soon and have her sent down to processing.”

Dal cleared his throat. “About that. I’m… interested in her.”

The warden gave him a look, though more of derision that suspicion. “Her?”

Dal made a concerted effort to appear casual. “I think she might clean up well.”

With a snort, the warden turned and squinted at Sito through the window. She was doubled over in her chair, sobbing into her cuffed hands. “If you say so. You want her, then?”

His mouth was dry; he tried to wet his lips discreetly. “Yes.”

“Fine. Take her, saves me the paperwork.” The warden pushed away from the wall, moving to call off his man, before he paused. “If you don’t mind a bit of friendly advice, try not to get her pregnant. We have enough half-Bajoran bastards running around.”

Dal barked out a laugh that he didn’t feel. “Too true.”

The warden, seemingly satisfied, went out. Dal followed, and a moment later Sito was brought to him. Her eyes were red, and her expression wary. “Uncuff her,” Dal said.

The interrogator complied, ignoring the little twitch of panic Sito gave as he got close. Dal dropped a hand on her shoulder, and she went still at once. “Behave,” he said.

She clasped her newly-freed arms around her ribs, shrinking into herself. She almost made _him_ believe she was afraid of him.

“Where is a computer I can access?” he asked, and the warden pointed him in the right direction. He steered Sito down the hall, keeping his hand on her. At the terminal, he found and booked their lodging and transportation. He caught Sito staring at the screen and realized that she must have no idea what he was doing. He hadn’t told her that he was going to surrender the shuttlecraft. Well, explanations would have to wait; this was hardly the place.

He set the transporter coordinates and led her to the pad. There was a tightness in her shoulders that hadn’t been there before—genuine, most likely. Whatever worry or defiance was being stirred up by her uncertainty, she was holding it in.

They rematerialized several miles away, in the nearest port city. The accommodations he’d arranged were easily found. The concierge carefully did not stare at Sito in a way that made it clear he wanted to. “Your room, sir,” he said, and keyed in the door code for them.

It was modest, but considering the last-second timing, he could hardly complain. The main problem was the bed. He knew the exact moment that Sito noticed it; her muscles bunched up under his hand like knots of rope.

“Do you have a spare cot of some kind?” he asked.

The concierge gave him a look of confusion and curiosity. Though Dal would have preferred not to, he knew it was wiser to give an explanation. The less attention they attracted, the better.

“She kicks in her sleep.”

Sito bristled like a startled animal, and he had to stop himself from apologizing.

The concierge cracked a smile. “Of course, sir. It will be done.”

He left them, then, finally and gratefully alone. Sito ducked away from his hand the moment the door closed. She looked, for a second, as if she was going to say something, but instead she turned and went to the window. Dal sat on the foot of the bed.

“I booked us passage to Cardassia Prime,” he said. “We leave tomorrow. I couldn’t keep the shuttle.”

Sito looked at him out of the corner of her eye, the one that was still swollen and purple. The surgically-constructed bruise seemed to be healing quickly, yellowing around the edges. She looked away again. “Is it always this hot?”

Dal got up and adjusted the environmental controls. Just as he finished, the door buzzed, and he admitted the concierge with a folding cot. “Where would you like it?”

“I’ll handle it,” Dal said, taking the cot from him. “Thank you.” He sent the man on his way again and carried the cot to the far wall. It was as far from the bed as the room allowed.

Sito watched him dispassionately. “If we don’t have anything to do, I’m going to take a shower,” she said.

“Tell me your sizes first,” he said. “I should go get you new clothes. You can’t walk around with a blaster burn on your chest.”

She glanced down at herself, then back to him. “Now? You’re going to leave me alone?”

“You’ll be locked in this room,” he said. “What could happen?”

“The employees can get in,” she said, struggling to keep her voice low. “I’m sure they’d have _no_ compunctions—“

“Except that I could get them fired. You’re being a bit paranoid, don’t you think?”

Sito let out a ragged sigh. She seemed small again. Besieged. “Maybe.”

If she had been any other person—a friend, a fellow officer, even perhaps a Starfleet ally of any other species—he would have gone to her, tried to be of some comfort. But how impossible it would be, for a Bajoran to find comfort a Cardassian. “You did very well back there,” he said. “It was truly impressive. And stressful, certainly moreso for you. I think you should stay here and rest; I can make arrangements to ensure that no one bothers you in my absence. I believe it will be simpler for me to complete these errands on my own. However, if you prefer, we will go together instead.”

She was silent a while, considering, before she shook her head. “I’ll stay.”

She gave Dal her measurements, but professed no other preferences, even when he asked. He went out feeling rather like a cadet who’d been given the vaguest possible orders, as some type of test. Of course, he couldn’t blame her for failing to dredge up an opinion on something so frivolous; she certainly had other things on her mind. As did he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what kind of temporary lodgings would be available on a Cardassian planet, so. This is pretty vague. Also I guess we're doing alternating POV? I won't hold myself to it but it seems like it'll work out okay.


	3. A matter of course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which tastes are acquired.

The shower wasn’t exactly like the ones she was used to, but like enough. She stood under the water a long time, hoping it would somehow drum this whole dreadful episode out of her pores, and when she got out again she’d be home.

The only trouble with the lengthy shower was that it gave her too much time to think. She remembered conserving water in the refugee camp, kneeling around a bucket with a gaggle of other children and trying desperately to wash her hair. She’d worn it short, then, out of necessity. Growing it out had been a statement, a small mission handed down from herself. She wondered if any of her friends from back then would’ve recognized her now. She wondered how many of them were still living.

Some, certainly, had joined the Resistance. That had been a topic of much discussion among children and adults alike—whose parents or relatives were in it, or had died for it, and who was going to join themselves the first chance they got. Sito sent up a prayer, as the water fell down her back in sheets, that whoever was left was safe, and clean, and free.

She also sent out a sort of general thanks and apology for the names—she’d borrowed quite a few today in spinning her story. Never a full, real one, of course. She’d mixed the family and personal around, or left out one or the other. But she knew it would be easier to remember the made-up names if they were based on something. That had helped, too, when it came time to call up the necessary emotions. The mental image of those old friends, murdered by Cardassians—an all too likely picture—was enough to make the tears come. All she had to do was not stop them.

She believed she was cried out, now. It had been a long time—not since Albert—and twice in a day was a bit much. She hated to think of those Cardassians watching her little performance, judging her weak and helpless.

Dal’s pity was somehow worse. She couldn’t do anything with it. Being angry at him seemed rather unfair, and telling him not to feel sorry for her wouldn’t help.

She wanted to hit something. She wanted the sparring room, a line of Worf’s devotees that she could knock down, or Worf himself to knock her down instead. She wanted to feel strong and honorable and capable.

What she felt was afraid.

After her shower, she looked down at the dirty heap of her disguise on the floor. She supposed it wouldn’t hurt her to wait in here, rather than put the clothes back on—it wasn’t as if she had anything to do. Though without the water, she felt somehow exposed.

Strange as it was, she hoped Dal wouldn’t be gone long. Perhaps she should have insisted on going along after all, though it contradicted with her plan: limit her interactions with Cardassians as much as possible. This would be safer on multiple levels. Beneath the surge of panic that had hit her when she realized how vulnerable she’d be with him gone, she had known he was right from the beginning.

It was clear that her emotions were not going to help her here. Oh, they might be useful every once in a while, like in the show she’d put on for her interrogator. When it was just the two of them, though, all her feelings did was stir up muck that they were both trying to avoid. This situation called for a clear head. She knew she had one somewhere; she just had to find it.

Bajoran meditations usually involved components—incense, candles, things she didn’t have. And Worf’s Klingon rituals, too, often called for a weapon, an open flame, something like that. She did know a few simpler tricks, picked up from Counselor Troi. Breathing exercises, relaxation and mindfulness. Sito surprised herself by thinking she would miss those sessions—she’d appreciated the necessity of them, but it had always been rather a chore. She preferred Worf’s brand of therapy, not that she would ever have put it like that to him. The idea of his reaction made her grin; she settled into the breathing more comfortably than she would have thought possible.

She stayed that way, stubbornly pulling her mind back whenever it tried to wander down any unfortunate path, until she heard the mechanical hiss of the outer door, opening and shutting. “Ensign Sito?” Dal called softly.

“Here.” She stood, rubbing the feeling back into her legs.

“I’ll put the clothes down here,” he said from outside the bathroom door. “I need to contact some people. Shouldn’t be long.”

The outer door hissed again, and Sito peeked into the main room. A bundle sat at her feet. She pulled it into the bathroom with her.

It was all dresses, which shouldn’t have surprised her, but she couldn’t help feeling a twist of displeasure. She had no idea if any free non-Cardassians lived on this planet, but presumably it wasn’t that easy to find pants without a tail hole around here. Everything was gray. She would have to ask Dal why Cardassians were so devoted to neutrals. There was one mercifully blueish in tone, like an Earth ocean.

The bundle also contained other essentials but, somewhat alarmingly, no shoes. She supposed Cardassian shoes would not have fit her. She pulled on the old, battered boots from her disguise; the blue dress almost covered them. The whole thing felt too much like the costume it was.

Sito tossed the rest of her terrorist clothes and carried her new ones into the main room. There was a small computer terminal on the desk. Though she couldn’t gain access to anything important, she decided to poke around it a bit, just to familiarize herself with the system.

She had just figured out how to get a translation of a Cardassian newspage when Dal came back in, mid-conversation with a comm pad. “…don’t know what you expect me to say. It just happened.”

“You don’t just happen to pick up stray Bajoran women,” whoever was on the other side said. “Other people, maybe, but not _you_.”

Dal made a noise of frustration and looked over at Sito. “If my word is not enough to convince you, maybe your eyes will do.” He paused, and Sito caught the hesitation and waved him on—time to get back to the act. “Paxa, come here,” he said.

Sito hadn’t picked the name. Some Starfleet person who specialized in undercover missions had made her a file. The false name was deliberately similar to her own, to help cover any slips of the tongue. Kito Paxa. A little too close for comfort.

Hearing Dal call her by her personal name—sort of—was a strange experience. She went to him, let him angle the pad so that they were both visible. A deeply unhappy Cardassian man stared back at her through the screen.

“Satisfied?” Dal asked.

“Not in the least,” the other shot back. “I may have no choice but to believe you, but I not understand you.”

Dal gave a sickly grin and looked to Sito again. “Paxa, allow me to introduce my brother, Himol Dal.”

Sito ducked her head as shyly and respectfully as she could manage. “Sir.”

He regarded her with an utterly unreadable expression. “Did my brother do that to your face?” he asked finally.

“No, sir,” she said. This version of Dal wasn’t a bounty hunter, and she guessed that such gratuitous violence might have been below his dignity as a military officer. They hadn’t talked about a new version of the backstory yet, but obviously they needed to.

“Good,” Himol said with a sigh. “For a moment I thought you had taken _complete_ leave of your senses. You must understand that this is going to damage your position.”

“I don’t see how,” Dal said calmly. “History is rife with people who managed to oppose poor decisions while also benefitting from the situations those decisions created.”

“And what will you do if you get your way and the war does end?” his brother asked. “Drop her back where you found her?”

“That’s getting a little ahead of things, isn’t it? If you don’t want to oversee the renovations for me, you can simply refuse—we don’t need to have a debate about it.”

Himol made a face that reminded Sito of when one of her old Vulcan schoolmates had been tricked into putting an entire slice of lemon in his mouth. “I’ll do it, but you should know that you’re acting like an irresponsible pubescent.”

“Noted. We’ll be home in a few days, I’m sure you’ll have a new litany of insults ready by then.”

Dal disconnected, then stood staring at the blank pad. Sito stepped subtly away from him. “Are all Cardassians passive aggressive?” she asked.

“Aggressive?” Dal echoed with a quirk to his head. “That was actually rather subdued, for us.”

“That’s where the ‘passive’ comes in. The passivity is dominant, the aggression subtextual.”

“Ah.” He considered the question anew. “Yes,” he said finally, “unfortunately so. Though I am usually only like that with Himol.”

“Does he know about you?”

“About where I’ve been this past week, you mean? No.” Dal sat down the pad and went to lean against the window. “He does agree with me, to an extent, about the war. But he’s not involved with anything military. He’s a professor of economics.” He rolled his shoulders, and Sito saw for the first time how tired he looked. “I didn’t mean to get you involved with that, but I needed to tell him about you—leaving it until we saw each other in person would have been too suspicious.” He gave her a small, rueful smile. “Thank you for not saying that I beat you.”

Sito nodded. “We should go over our story again, now that it will be for people who know you.”

He motioned to the pad. “Play the conversation back, see what I told him. We can fill in the gaps over the next few days.”

She picked up the pad and brought it to him; he unlocked it. As he placed it back in her hands, she asked, “What am I supposed to call you?”

Dal stared at her for so long that she worried the answer was obvious, and he was wondering how to tactfully question her intelligence. Then he said, haltingly, “I don’t actually know.”

“What do other Bajoran captives call _their_ Cardassians?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “The kinds of people who keep Bajoran lovers are not the kinds of people I go out of my way to interact with.”

Sito sighed, though she could hardly fault him for that. “Well, are you generally on a last-name basis with your sexual partners?”

If she was not mistaken, Dal looked distinctly uncomfortable; she had a suspicion that he would’ve blushed, if he could’ve. After a long stretch of silence: “You should probably call me Joret.”

“Will do,” she said, trying not to succumb to the strangeness of the moment. She looked down at the pad, balking at the idea of listening to the rest of that conversation. A sudden, terrible thought hit her. “Are you married?”

Dal let out a bark of laughter. “No.”

Sito tried not to look too desperately relieved. “What would you have done,” she said, “if you had been?”

“The same basic premise, I imagine. I may have arranged for one of my associates to take you later on, but I wouldn’t have left you here.”

Silence held as they looked at each other, neither quite sure what to say. It was the silence that made her realize something. “I never thanked you. You saved my life.”

“And you mine,” he returned. “Under the circumstances, we might do better not to keep track of such things. From now on, we will each be saving the other as a matter of course.”

“You’re right,” she said with a wary smile. She’d been thinking about all this the wrong way. It wasn’t that their mission had ended—badly—the mission was still going, and would continue until both of them were safely where they belonged.

“Is the clothing satisfactory?” he asked out of nowhere; she was reminded, suddenly and nonsensically, of Commander Data.

“It’s not what I’m used to,” she said, not making the effort she might have to spare his feelings. Dal did not seem to need that sort of coddling. “But I suppose a Starfleet uniform would be a little conspicuous.”

“Not that I would know where to get one,” Dal returned. “Perhaps I can make it up to you. I believe the replicators here are programmed with some Bajoran recipes.”

That was interesting. It had been a while since Sito had eaten Bajoran food. Actually, it had been a while since she’d eaten anything at all. Eating before a mission had always been a bit of hardship for her. It wasn’t nerves, exactly, but she felt sort of hyper-aware, so full of expectant energy that she had no appetite. Usually she choked down something, out of prudence, but she hadn’t quite managed it before she left the Enterprise. Dal had an energy supplement of some kind on the shuttle, she remembered, and offered to bring her something as well, but she’d refused.

She should have been ravenous. It must not have hit her yet. Though she did feel a bit dehydrated from all the crying. “I’m too tired to make decisions,” she said. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“Are you sure?” Dal asked. “I have been told that Cardassian cuisine is… an acquired taste.”

“Then I should probably start acquiring it,” she said reasonably.

Dal, defeated, went to procure their dinner.

She didn’t hate it. It helped that her hunger roared to life the second she had food in front of her. Dal watched with a mix of bemusement, concern, and incredulity as she demolished the meal. It took him about twice as long to finish, during which Sito sat and stared at her hands and wondered vaguely if she should try to make polite conversation. She really didn’t feel like it. Dal didn’t seem to mind. He offered to get her dessert, but she didn’t feel like that, either. So they sat in silence until he was done, whereupon he excused himself to the restroom.

Sito finally listened to the conversation with Himol. It was less strange than she’d expected, to hear them talking about her. She played it back a few times, committing Dal’s version of the story to memory. She also found out about the renovations Dal wanted his brother to oversee—an addition onto his house, with separate environmental controls. At least she knew she wouldn’t sweat to death. Or be expected to continue sharing a room with him. She wondered if he had booked them separate quarters for the trip to Cardassia Prime, but didn’t get her hopes up. That would have looked suspicious. And she didn’t rightly know which she would prefer; Dal’s company was awkward, but being on her own still seemed like a risk. And it gave her too much time alone with her thoughts.

Dal came back, looking beyond exhausted, and lowered himself onto the cot. “If we’re done for tonight, I think I’m going to sleep.”

“Not there,” Sito said, mildly scandalized now that she’d realized what he meant to do. “Take the real bed; that thing’s barely tall enough for you.”

“It’s fine.” He lay down, either to demonstrate the adequate length of the cot or because he was simply too tired to sit up anymore. “Reminds me of a barracks. There is a comfort to the familiar.”

Yes, Sito thought. There certainly was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to quickly thank those who has read, commented and left kudos! It's nice to know I'm not the only one who wanted Sito to survive, and I hope you like how the story continues. I have the next Dal chapter written, I just have to type it up, so the next update should come a little quicker than this one.


	4. Must be cabin fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we achieve a first-name basis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I jinxed it by saying I'd get this chapter up sooner. Sorry! It's also a short one, but once again, I have the next written and only have to type it. I won't say anything more so as to not jinx myself again.

The journey to Cardassia Prime was blissfully uneventful. Sito kept to their room, and Dal left only a handful of times himself. Now that he had access to a secured channel, he was officially back from his leave, which meant there was an ocean of messages and reports to sift through. He didn’t dare contact his associates, not yet. As much as they needed to know about his ill-fated foray into Federation space, it could wait until he got home, to his personal devices and their special encryption programs. There was nothing they could do for Sito that could be ruined by a few days’ wait.

Sito was often off somewhere, it seemed, thinking about something else or nothing at all. When his work became tedious, Dal would watch her for a while: the stillness of her meditation, the smoothly flowing pattern of her martial arts—Klingon, she’d told him when he asked. They’d managed to get her a pair of pants out of a replicator, whereupon her routine expanded to include calisthenics and some bizarre form of exercise that involved walking around the room on her hands.

Though neither of them could have been called cheerful, they held up well for the first leg of the trip. About half-way through, it started to build up, days upon days of silence and sameness, the constant low-level tension thickening the air like smoke, burrowing into the walls and lingering in the corners.

“How would you feel,” Dal said as he sent his last missive of the night, “about going out to eat?”

“Ugh.” Sito dropped from where she’d been doing pull-ups on a convenient bit of architecture. “I’m surprisingly open to that idea. Must be cabin fever.”

“Fever?” Dal echoed with mild concern. She certainly hadn’t been acting sick.

“Oh. It’s just an expression—it means I’d do just about anything to get out of this room.” She wiped the sweat from her face and offered him half a smile. “You too?”

He hadn’t known he’d been that obvious. “There’s a lounge on the observation deck. We don’t have to stay, if it becomes uncomfortable, but it might be worth a try.”

“I’ll go,” she said, “if you’ll spar with me.”

Dal sat up in surprise. “Now?”

“No, no use getting all bruised up before dinner. Just, sometime. In general, maybe.”

“You could have asked,” he said. It would be an interesting match. He had the size and the strength advantage, but she was quick, and seemed to have studied a broader range of techniques. He was distantly concerned that she might beat him.

Sito shrugged and went to get cleaned up. Her bruising had, thankfully, faded, so that was one less way she might draw attention. She wasn’t the only non-Cardassian on board, but she was—as far as Dal knew—the only Bajoran.

She wore the blue dress. The color suited her marginally better than the others; the best that could be said about most of them was that they fit. Perhaps he ought to try again, once they were home, with more options to hand. It probably wouldn’t go any better; picking out women’s clothes was not in his area of expertise. Well, on Cardassia Prime, she might as well go with him. It wasn’t like it could make anything worse, and at least he could manage people’s perceptions better there.

He stood, offering his arm. “Paxa.”

She made a face, but wound her arm through his. “Joret.”

Hm. That would take some getting used to.

The observation deck was somewhat crowded, forcing them to a central table, far from walls and corners. Sito definitely drew her share of attention, though most of it deflected onto Dal. Looks of envy, disapproval, disgust. He ignored it.

Sito asked about the Cardassian music being played in the lounge, the perfect beginning to the sort of generic conversation that would make them seem more normal. They managed to talk pleasantly about music for the entire meal, and the talking slowed Sito down some so that Dal did to have to rush so much to keep up. He learned that Sito could play an instrument which he had never heard of, but based on her description, it sounded similar to one of the wind instruments his niece favored. He wondered, not for the first time, what his family would think of Sito. Or she of them.

His brother’s feelings he could live with—they already fought constantly, but they also trusted each other, in the end. The children, though. He didn’t have the first idea how to explain this to them.

Up until that night, Sito had declined dessert—whether due to a general preference or because of the prevailing bleak mood, he wasn’t sure—but tonight, when the waiter offered, she gave Dal a subtle nod. Anything to stay out of the room a bit longer, he supposed.

He ordered something with a bit of spiciness to it, in case she really didn’t have a sweet tooth. He was gradually becoming more familiar with her tastes; they were working their way through the replicator’s Cardassian dishes by order of popularity. It would be a relief to be home, where she could start to figure these things out for herself.

Dal really was not cut out for this… taking care of another person. In the field, when it was life or death on the line, certainly. But these everyday things were somehow beyond him. He’d had too little practice.

Sito dipped her spoon into the dessert, studied it a moment, and popped it in her mouth. There was a subtle but definite change in her face. “I like this,” she said, quietly—not as part of their everything-is-normal act, but actually, for him.

Dal smiled and started in on his own dessert.

When they had finished, Dal took her arm again and escorted her back toward their room. They had barely made it out of the lounge when Sito started to laugh, hiding it behind her hand.

“What is it?” Dal asked, deeply confused. He hoped the bottle they’d shared hadn’t been too strong.

“Nothing,” she said, waving it off as she tried to stop. “Just… all those Cardassians _glaring_ at us. I couldn’t stop thinking how their faces would change if only they knew.”

Though he did not usually find the idea of exposure amusing, he had to admit there was a certain humor to that. “From scandalous to treasonous,” he muttered under his breath.

Sito had gotten herself under control. “Well. That went well, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” he said, keying open the door. “Let us hope our future sparring match goes just as well.”

“For whom?” Sito returned, and went on ahead of him into their room.


	5. Make yourself at home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet the family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a while, sorry! School and other writing projects have completely taken over my life. Thank you to everyone who's been reading, I hope I don't have another big gap like that. I have a pretty good idea of where we're headed, but we'll see how long it takes me to get us there, haha.

They arrived on Cardassia Prime several days later with a tally of Sito: two, Dal: three. They had to hold back some, as there wasn’t a lot of maneuverability on the ship. Sito was looking forward to a real fight. Dal promised that his home had a good amount of space with a minimum of breakables.

When the hired transport dropped them off, Himol was waiting. His displeasure seemed to have cooled some, and he managed a—rather wan—smile. “Welcome home,” he said, clasping arms with Dal. “To both of you, I suppose.”

“Ah, yes,” Dal said, turning, “I should introduce you properly. Kito Paxa, my elder brother Himol Dal, economics professor at Cardassia’s finest institution.”

Himol inclined his head ever-so-slightly. “Welcome to Cardassia Prime, Kito.” Oh, last name—she liked his manners, at least. “Unfortunately, your room is still under construction. The contractor said another day at most.”

“Thank you,” Sito and Dal said in unison, upon which they both became a bit flustered. “Thank you for your help,” Dal continued. “I hope eventually you will… understand better.”

“Don’t strain yourself trying to explain it,” Himol said dryly. “But I do hope you’ve thought of something to say to Lenia and Drett.”

Dal make a face like he’d been zapped with a phaser. “They’re not here, are they?”

Himol nodded toward the house. “They’re watching the workmen. I tried to tell them you’d be visiting us soon, but they wanted to welcome you home in person.” He grinned, though it was clearly an unhappy grin—a very Cardassian expression, Sito thought. “How could I say no to that?”

Dal took a deep breath, looking like a man about to face the worst battle of his life. Sito took pity on him. “Shall I wait out here?” she asked. She wasn’t sure how much it would actually help, but she _was_ sure he wouldn’t have asked her to on his own.

“Please,” he said with barely contained relief. “I’ll be back momentarily, just—“ To Himol, he asked, “Did you tell them anything?”

“I leave that to you,” Himol said, inscrutable. “I certainly didn’t know what to say about it.”

Dal looked as if he were about to respond, but he glanced at Sito and seemed to change his mind. He turned on his heel and marched into the house. It was typical Cardassian architecture, as far as Sito could tell, though somewhat bigger than one single man should need, even without the addition off to the side, still hidden under reflective sheeting as the construction continued within.

She turned her attention back to Himol, who was baldly staring at her, and continued even when she started staring back. “I don’t understand it,” he said finally.

“I’m sorry?”

“If you had asked me a week ago, I would have said it was impossible for anyone—much less a rebel Bajoran woman—to seduce my brother. I thought, perhaps, when we met in person I would understand. But I remain as lost as before.”

Sito did not know what to do. Part of her wanted to laugh—he was perceptive, this man, even dangerously so, but she found it somewhat gratifying. She wondered if she ought to pretend to be offended. But for what? Being accused of seducing Dal (which was, more or less, the story they were going with), or the fact that Himol did not find her a likely seductress?

“You look a bit worried,” Himol said. “Don’t be anxious on my account; I have never once successfully reasoned with my brother, and in this case I believe I am done trying. If he does end up sending you back to the labor camp, it won’t be because of me.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, either. So she changed the subject. “Have your children ever met a Bajoran before?”

If the non-sequitur surprised him, it didn’t show. “In fact, they have. One of the financial ministers from Bajor came to speak at the university, and I was his host.”

“That must have been very interesting.”

Now he did look surprised. “Really? I thought those ‘collaborators’ disgusted your rebellion almost as much as Cardassians ourselves.”

He was right. Sito should have been thinking like a rebel; it was more of a stretch than she’d expected. “Everyone does what they must to survive.”

“Hm. Except those who do more than they must.”

She wondered who he meant. Her? The rebellion? Or those same guls Dal complained of, who treated war like a game of the ego?

“And I suppose,” Himol continued, his voice as neutral as could be, “that your former associates would consider you a collaborator, as well.” He narrowed his eyes. “Unless you did not come here willingly.”

Sito bristled. Willingly? That was one way to put it, when the other options were enslavement and death. But she also knew what he was asking—without really asking it. If he was half as perceptive as he seemed, he already knew the answer. “Your brother is not that kind of man,” she said, allowing just a little bit of indignation into it. Himol didn’t need to know what the indignation was for.

“I didn’t think so,” he said, deigning to look relieved. “But then, it seems I do not know him as well as I thought.”

Before the following silence could congeal into awkwardness, the door of Dal’s house opened, and a Cardassian girl came out. She looked no more than ten, and a little nervous. Himol held his arm out, and Lenia came and tucked herself against her father’s side. “Did your uncle explain everything to you?”

“Sort of,” she said, her voice soft. “He’s still talking to Drett.”

“Hm. Would you like to say hello to Ms. Kito?”

The girl glanced up at Sito, then down. Was it shyness, or fear? Sito wasn’t used to frightening children; she didn’t much like it. She got down on one knee, smiling, and said gently, “You can call me Paxa, if you like. Your uncle told me you’re a musician?”

“Yes,” she answered, meeting Sito’s eyes now. There was a little fear there, but also curiosity—enough that she had come out of the house, alone, to meet her. “I can play garatia, finolen, and araes. And I’m going to learn buteno once my hands are big enough.”

“The finolen is Bajoran, isn’t it?” Sito asked. It sounded vaguely familiar.

Lenia nodded. “And araes is Romulan.”

“That’s wonderful,” Sito said. “I wish I knew any Bajoran instruments. But I do play something called the piccolo.”

“That’s a funny name,” the girl giggled.

“That’s why I picked it. These aid volunteers from Earth brought us a whole bunch of instruments once, and all of the children got to take one, and a little book that taught you how to play them. Of course, without real teachers to help us, the noise those first few weeks was terrible. I think our parents were about ready to move camp and leave us behind.”

Lenia gave a scandalized little gasp.

“I’m kidding,” Sito said quickly. “They would never. In the camps, there was nothing more important than caring for the children.”

The girl regarded her skeptically, but the nervousness from before was all but gone. “Uncle Joret said your father made you become a terrorist.”

Sito swallowed hard. When she’d signed on to lie non-stop for an indefinite period, she hadn’t counted on having to lie to kids. “That’s right.”

Lenia pulled a little closer to Himol. “My father would never make me do anything bad.”

Sito’s reflex was to assume that someone had told this girl that Cardassian parents were different—better—than others, but that didn’t seem to be what Lenia meant. There had been a twinge of sadness, pity, in her tone, as if to say: Your father shouldn’t have done that to you. I’m sorry.

“No,” Sito replied carefully, “I’m sure he wouldn’t.”

“Consider,” Himol said to his daughter, “that Miss Kito’s father had a different point of view. Most likely he thought that was the best way to protect his family.”

Sito had to clench her jaw to keep from gaping. “That’s… very kind of you,” she said.

He shrugged as if it were nothing, for a Cardassian to extend such understanding to a Bajoran—one he didn’t even know. One that, strictly speaking, didn’t exist.

It was then that Dal came to the door and bade them all come inside. His nephew Drett, a boy about fourteen, took after his father. His shyness, when it came to Sito at least, was worse than Lenia’s; he hardly said a word to her, though he did risk a few curious glances her way.

The discussion that followed was blessedly short. It mostly consisted of Himal and Dal catching each other up on matters of importance, such as the work on Dal’s house and their upcoming schedules. Dal was invited—though it didn’t seem he was allowed to refuse—to visit Himol’s home on his next day off.

Lenia tugged her father’s sleeve. “Is Paxa coming, too? I want to show her my finolen.”

Sito looked from Lenia to Dal to Himol. The last gave half a shrug, and Dal hedged, “She may still be too tired from travelling.”

Lenia met Sito’s gaze measuringly. “I think you’ll be alright by then.”

Sito had the distinct feeling that she adored this girl. “I would be honored. Thank you.”

With their plans made, Himol and his family took their leave. The workers were also done for the day, and Sito fielded her share of lascivious and contemptuous glances as they went out. Then it was just her and Dal. Home, or as close to it as she was going to get for a while.

“I’ll go contact my associates,” Dal said as soon as he’d closed the door on the last workman. “They may have some questions for you.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He huffed an almost-laugh. “True enough. Make yourself at home.”


	6. Strange bedfellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dal is insulted.

The moment Dal’s superior connected, he started in, “I don’t recall bringing a _Bajoran_ back with you as part of your mission.”

Dal sat back, as if the distance could help him escape the heat of the other man’s glare. “So you’ve heard.”

“You told Grenel,” the man sneered, “everyone in the sector has heard. Which I’m sure was on purpose, but it doesn’t explain what you were thinking.”

Dal took him through the whole misadventure, from his rendezvous with the Enterprise to getting Sito out of the prison camp. His compatriot’s frown morphed into a look of consternation. “You know,” the man said gruffly, “there is one vital asset to working in counter-intelligence. It’s the intelligence.”

“What else could I have done?” Dal asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Left her there. Or better yet, not pulled her out of the pod.”

“She’s an ally.”

“She’s _Starfleet_. We’re trying to stop the war, not compromise Cardassian security.” The man stopped, kneading at his forehead. “We need to get her off this planet. She’ll attract far too much attention, and I don’t trust you, of all people, to play the lust-struck fool.”

“Do you want me to request a transfer?”

“No, no need to draw suspicion. Let me work on it.”

Dal rather hoped nothing came of that. The most logical place to send them would be Bajor, and he didn’t particularly relish that idea. “Is anyone in a position to get a message to the Federation?”

“I doubt it,” the other said. “And after this fiasco, I don’t think we’ll be sending anyone their way any time soon. But I’ll see what I can do. It would help to get any information we can from her.”

“Hold on,” Dal said, and went looking for Sito. She was staring at a sculpture that stood in his dining room. It had been a gift, and he still wasn’t quite sure what it was supposed to be. “My associate is waiting,” he said. “Give me a moment to turn the screen off.”

“No names, no faces?” Sito guessed. “Except mine, of course.” She followed him back to his office, where she recited for the blank screen her name, rank, and station, as well as what she knew about the future movements of the Enterprise. Most likely they wouldn’t get a chance to attempt contact until well after her information had expired, but it didn’t hurt to know. Dal’s colleague tersely wished them luck and cut the transmission.

“So that’s it?” Sito asked, leaning against his desk.

“That’s it,” he confirmed, “for the moment. I’ll let you know as soon as anything changes.”

“Right.” She looked wonderingly around his office, then back to him. “How complicated is this going to be?”

Interesting question. “Quantified how?”

“It seemed like… Well, your brother didn’t really buy our story and he’s not happy about it either way. Your friend sounded even less happy.”

“It’s the taboo of it, partly,” Dal said. “Most Cardassians wouldn’t bring a mistress home with them, but then most in that position are married. Which I would be, as well, if I cared at all about taboos. People will be skeptical, in several directions, but there’s nothing we can do about that social and political risks that we wouldn’t do anyway.”

“For example?”

“Keeping you way from my colleagues as much as possible. Appearing in public together, but not in places of consequence. Ordering you a prescription for birth control, in case anyone is watching my accounts.”

She laughed, but there was a little bit of breathlessness to it. “I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

Dal might not have, either, if not for the tawdry warning of the prison camp warden. He didn’t like the thought of owing anything to that man.

“You’re going to a lot of trouble,” Sito said.

“I’m lucky I’m in a position to do this at all,” Dal replied. “If the Order had me monitored the way they would like to…” At Sito’s confused expression, he explained, “The Obsidian Order keeps a close eye on military and government personnel. Because I’m unmarried, the group,” he gestured to the dark screen, “often uses this place for physical meetings, when necessary, so someone higher-up pulled some strings and had the recording devices removed.”

“Ah,” she said, eyes darting to the corners as if checking for cameras. Paranoia was not, in general, an unhealthy attitude to take toward the Order, but he didn’t like the tension in her face.

He stepped closer, let a hand drop on her shoulder. She looked up. She seemed smaller than usual, half-sitting on his desk. “You are safe here.”

“Safe” was something of an overstatement, as she doubtless knew, but she looked as if she appreciated the sentiment.

“Let me show you the house.”

She followed at his elbow, nodding occasionally as he pointed out the features she would need to navigate without him. If he could have put off his return to work, at least until her room was finished, he would have, but they needed to do what they could to negate suspicion.

“If you prefer not to interact with the workmen,” he said as he led her upstairs, “you may lock yourself in my bedroom, or in the lower level. My exercise room is down there, though I’m afraid there isn’t a bathroom.” He stopped outside his room to adjust the control panel, having Sito input her voice command.

She stepped inside, turning in a circle to take it in. It was what Dal had asked the designer for: classic Cardassian styles, but not ornate or extravagant. A streamlined environment enabled clear thinking.

“What is that?” Sito asked, looking at the pair of paintings hung over his bed. They showed the same landscape, though one featured a grand, sweeping edifice of painstakingly smoothed stone, the other nothing but ruins.

“It’s a representation of an ancient Cardassian structure. Probably a temple,” Dal said, coming to stand beside her. “The military destroyed it long ago. There’s only rubble left.”

“Why would they do that?”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “Control. So much of Cardassia’s history was decimated, during the famine, as we scrambled for anything we could sell. As the military rose up, crushing what remained became a way to solidify power, to stop nostalgia from holding us back.” He glanced down at her. “We were not so different from Bajor, once.”

A shudder ran through her, and Dal had the distinct feeling that she was biting her tongue.

“Do you disagree?”

Sito shook her head. “I don’t know your history. But if you’re right, that means someday Bajor could end up like Cardassia.”

Dal tilted his head, struggling to read her expression. “Anything is possible.”

She looked up at him, blue eyes raging like a storm. “I hope you’re wrong.”

***

It was a strange feeling, to close his front door behind him the next morning and know that his home would not be waiting, empty and unchanging, for his return. He had woken early, found Sito already up and at his table, picking at her breakfast. Neither had much appetite, but they did spar for a half-hour before the workers arrived. Dal had left Sito safely closed into his bedroom, having moved his few private belongings to a locked drawer the night before. She had a padd to browse, and a small store of food, and she had not expressed any of the nervousness of being left alone that she had back in the hotel. There was no more he could do for her, except hope for the best.

It was a relief, to return to his routine. Apart from a few curious—and judgmental—looks, he could almost forget that he was harboring a Bajoran fugitive in his house.

It sounded positively suicidal when he put it like that, didn’t it.

He got through about half the morning before someone dared to mention it. Of course, he shouldn’t have expected any better from Grenel.

“I have to tell you, Dal,” the lanky Cardassian said, tail whipping behind him as he shadowed Dal down a hallway that suddenly seemed much narrower than it had before, “I didn’t think you had it in you, but you’ve shocked me.”

“You are not the only one allowed to make questionable decisions, Grenel,” he said without slowing or turning.

“Oh? Having regrets about taking your vacation home with you?”

“None yet,” Dal returned, “but I suppose it’s inevitable. Did you need something?”

“Only to extend an invitation.” The younger man ignored his snort of derision and followed Dal to his desk. “What better way to celebrate your return than a party? It’s only a quiet get-together, and everyone is so eager to meet your new acquisition.”

For the first time, Dal put down his padd and looked the other Cardassian in the eye. “I did not buy her from a Ferengi, Grenel. The girl was a terrorist a week ago. She just saw her family slaughtered.”

“So a little distraction would do her good,” Grenel said with a flash of teeth. “Even our anti-social codebreaker said he would come, if your Bajoran was going to be there.”

A spark of interest lit in Dal, though he quickly disguised it under a scowl. He had never properly met the Bajoran codebreaker, though he knew the man worked somewhere in the complex. Keden was, by reputation, a withdrawn sort of person—understandably. But he was one of the only free Bajorans in the city, if you could call him “free.” He wasn’t in prison or a work camp, and that counted for something. Sito would probably appreciate the chance to meet him. The resistance didn’t take too kindly to those that cooperated with the occupation, but hard times made for strange bedfellows—that much he knew quite well. And though Sito was not actually a terrorist.

It wasn’t as if they could avoid the public eye entirely. And perhaps, once his colleagues had looked their fill, they would put the whole affair out of their minds. That was probably too much to hope for. Still, they might as well get the inevitable over with. He would ask her.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, waving a hand at Grenel as if he could shoo him away like an insect. He could not, truthfully, say what he hoped Sito’s response would be.

If they were going to a party, though, he would have to find her better clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got the next chapter written, so expect it soon! I actually mean it this time, haha. Thank you for reading!


	7. A good friend to have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a party.

They had been at the party no more than ten minutes when Dal, mid-conversation with the host, cursed under his breath. Sito looked up at him, the sour twist of his mouth. “You didn’t tell me you invited Garak,” he murmured.

Grenel glanced over his shoulder at the man in question, who had just entered and was chatting amiably with the hostess. “I always invite him; it lessens the chance of his coming. You two don’t get along anymore?”

“We never did. You should know better than to believe such rumors.”

Another colleague, Pelum if Sito remembered correctly, gave a laugh with an uncomfortable edge running through it. “You, at least, don’t have to worry about that quite so much anymore.”

Dal’s shoulders tensed, and Sito had to contain her surprise when he put a hand to the small of her back.

“Go say hello to him,” Grenel suggested. “It wouldn’t do to look as if you were avoiding him like an old lover.” He took a glass of kanar off the table and pressed it into Dal’s hand.

Dal looked at the cup, his face grim. “Is this for me, or for Garak?”

Pelum laughed again, and he and Grenel walked off to greet more newly-arrived guests. Garak had finished his pleasantries with the hostess and was now standing by the wall, surveying, smiling benignly.

“Who is he?” Sito whispered.

Dal shook his head. “A man to be careful of.” He glanced down at the alcohol in his hand, downed half the cup, and handed it to Sito. He took another full glass. “Come, I may as well introduce you.”

His hand never left Sito’s back as they crossed the room, weaving between the bodies. As more guests filled the house, Sito became more aware than ever of the fact that she was surrounded—Cardassians on every side, their eyes following her like a big cat stalking its prey. She hoped the other Bajoran would arrive soon. It would be a relief not to be so desperately alone, no matter the other man’s loyalties.

“Ah, Joret,” said a bright, pleasant voice, bringing Sito’s attention back to the matter at hand. Garak had closed the last few steps toward them, grinning up at the taller Dal. “It’s been too long.”

“You’ve been well, I hope?” Dal offered the drink, which the other man accepted with something of a wry expression.

“The same as ever, I suppose. You, though, you’ve had quite a change.” The Cardassian met Sito’s eyes, and though his smile didn’t change, there was something unsettling about having him look directly at her. There seemed to be a great deal going on behind those eyes. “Miss Kito, correct?”

She ducked her head with put-upon shyness, but it was almost a relief to have an excuse to break from his gaze. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Garak gave a short laugh. “Never have I met a more polite terrorist. The pleasure is mine, my dear.”

Dal cleared his throat. “Paxa, this is Elim Garak. A colleague.”

“You wound me, Joret,” Garak said with barely contained melodrama. “I know we haven’t seen each other lately, but I still consider you a friend.”

Dal was silent, and Sito got the distinct impression he was biting his tongue.

Garak pouted; Sito had never expected to see a full-grown Cardassian man pout. It was quite the experience. “If I were you, I wouldn’t throw such an offer away lightly. I’m a good friend to have.”

“And a terrible enemy,” Dal replied.

The pout morphed into a wide, hungry grin. “Now, wherever did you get an idea like that?”

Just then, the door opened, and another little cluster of Cardassians entered, though they were not alone. A dark-skinned Bajoran man walked with them, warily scanning the room. His eyes locked on to Sito almost immediately.

“Ah, there he is,” Garak said easily, all trace of his former expression wiped clean. “I expect your little rebel is eager to meet Keden. Let’s you and I catch up at a later date, hm?” He clasped his hand briefly on Dal’s shoulder and left, smiling, to insert himself into some other conversation.

Dal let out a breath through his teeth. He took his cup of kanar back from Sito and drank the rest of it.

“Is everything alright?” she asked him.

But he only shook his head again and led her over to the group of newcomers.

After the Cardassians had looked their fill at her, they wandered off to join the rest of the party. The Bajoran had been very quiet while they were there, but every time Sito had glanced at him, he had been looking back at her. It was just the two of them and Dal, now, in one corner of the room. Dal excused himself to get another drink, and the two Bajorans were alone—or as alone as they could be in a room full of Cardassians.

Sito looked Keden over carefully. He seemed healthy enough, though he was thin and somewhat hunched and had lines in his face that seemed to have little to do with age.

“You don’t have a d’ja pagh,” he said in a low voice.

“Neither do you.”

There was a slight twitch of his mouth, but no definable expression. He glanced around the room as if someone might be listening. “It was taken from me years ago.”

Sito thought of her own earring, tucked carefully into a drawer back in her quarters of the Enterprise. The religious symbol was against Starfleet’s uniform code. She hadn’t brought it, knowing that if she was captured it would be possible to trace her family with it. She didn’t like the thought of being so far from it, but at least it hadn’t been confiscated.

“Dal told me you’re a codebreaker,” she said.

Keden nodded. “A traitor, you’re probably thinking.”

“I’m in no position to judge.”

He scoffed softly. “You only warm a bed. I am actively working against the rebellion.”

Though his face was a mask, Sito caught the faintest tremor in his voice. She hesitated only a moment before she reached out and put a hand on his arm. “It is neither of our faults if different things are asked of us. I do not know what I would do, in your position.”

His eyes widened ever so slightly as he looked down at her hand. After several moments’ silence, he asked, “Where was your family from?”

 _Was_. Accurate as the tense may have been, it still gave a curious twist to her stomach. “We have been in a refugee camp since my parents were children. But my grandfather once owned a winery on the southern continent.” She glanced behind her, but the nearby Cardassians all seemed to be engaged in their own conversations, and Dal had been caught by someone over by the table. Softly, she added, “They say, when the Cardassians possessed his land, he managed to trick the occupying force into drinking his last batch of spring wine. By the time they realized he had poisoned it, he was already gone.”

He gave a small, wry smile. “No doubt someone suffered for that.”

“Suffering is inevitable,” she replied, “but small victories are rare.”

Keden made a face. He was so difficult to read. Sito knew how to hide her emotions, but she did it by masking them with something else. With Keden, she couldn’t even begin to guess what he was thinking.

Nodding in the direction Dal had gone, he asked, “And your Cardassian? Is he a suffering, or a victory?”

Sito glanced over shoulder. Dal was talking with someone, though he didn’t look particularly as if he were enjoying it. If there was one thing she could really appreciate about Dal, it was that he knew when to give her space. “A little of both.”

“He is… polite with you.”

Sito looked back at him, curious and a little worried. What had he noticed? “He is.”

“I was a little surprised by it,” he said, looking vaguely embarrassed or possibly worried. “Usually, Cardassians are more… aggressive, when it comes to matters of passion.”

“Joret isn’t the demonstrative type,” Sito said, ignoring the heat coming to her face.

“I see.” Keden fiddled uncomfortably with his drink—Sito wasn’t sure where he’d gotten it, but it didn’t look like any of the spirits set about on the tables. For one thing, it was cold; she could see droplets of condensation beginning to stick to the glass. Cold kanar was not a thing people did, or would want to. He caught her attention and said, “I’m afraid Cardassian liquor is a bit strong for me. Would you like one?”

Sito nodded, and Keden flagged down one of the men who had come in with him. He spoke to the Cardassian easily, with deference but not too much. Sito didn’t know how to feel about the fact that, for all he was clearly not fine with what he was doing, he managed to be something like friends with these people. It was alarming, in a way, but also understandable, and almost—comforting. She couldn’t have imagined what his life on this planet would have been like, otherwise.

They drank chilled wine and talked for a while about inconsequential things: Cardassian weather, Cardassian food, the constellations they read in their sky. Dal kept his distance far longer than she expected him to; the party was wrapping up by the time he approached them, tucked into a pair of chairs in a quiet corner. He stood at Sito’s elbow, eyes shiny from drink, weary but trying not to show it. “Would you like to stay longer?”

“No, we can go. Thank you.” She stood, and Keden followed suit. She wanted to encourage him, somehow, as a thanks for his company, wanted to impress upon him how much she would like to see him again, but before she could find the words, he reached for her. He pinched the shell of her right ear, not enough to hurt, really, but on the threshold. Her pulse beat strongly against the pressure, a thrum of heat under the thin skin. Her heart thumped painfully against her ribs.

He let her go with a smile, the most genuine she had yet seen from him. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

Sito ran a cold finger over her ear, wondering what her pagh had told him. She almost returned the gesture, but he was her elder, and not family, and there was a lingering awkwardness between them that she wasn’t sure had been helped by what he’d just done. “Until next time?” she asked, trying to keep any trace of desperation out of her voice.

He inclined his head. “I certainly hope so. My apologies, sir,” he continued, turning to Dal. “I’m afraid I monopolized your companion tonight.”

Dal shrugged. “I only came so she could meet you.”

Sito looked at him sharply. Was the uncharacteristic honesty because of the liquor, or because he trusted Keden that much? Either way, she didn’t want any of the remaining guests to hear Dal admit to doing her that kind of favor. “You look a bit tired, Joret,” she said, taking his arm. “Goodnight, Keden.”

“Goodnight,” the man echoed, his thin hand raised in farewell as Sito and Dal crossed toward the door. Dal gave a quick, thankful goodbye to their hosts, and they were out, into the warm darkness.

Sito looked up, wondering if she could spot any of the stars she and Keden had discussed earlier, but the house was closer to the city than Dal’s, and the light pollution obscured almost everything.

Dal stopped, suddenly, and Sito glanced at him. He was staring into the shadows across the street. She couldn’t see anything, but Cardassian’s eyes were supposed to be better in the dark—though not as good in the light. Dal turned her sharply and led her away. She didn’t ask, but as they all but fled the street, she thought she could feel eyes on her.

She was used to it; there had been nothing but eyes on her all night. But this feeling, somehow, she found harder to shake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't not put Garak in this, I just had to, I'm sorry. I absolutely have not checked the timelines to see if Garak was already stationed at Terok Nor by this point, just anticipate that we will diverge further and further from the realms of canon the longer this goes on.


End file.
